East of the Sun
by pheonixfeather94
Summary: She is caught between two worlds, stuck in a limbo where two halves of her coexist, but never interact, trying to find a reason behind why she feels like there's something more. He kisses her, and the barriers start to fall. CS
1. Chapter One

"She would search for him.

In the land east of the sun and west of the moon.

But there was no way there."

-Edith Pattou

* * *

_She smells the sea._

_Even before she opens her eyes, she knows where she is, and she smiles._

_Her eyes flutter open, and she takes in the scene around her, as familiar now as her own home: the sweeping deck and soaring masts, railings and planks gleaming mahogany in the soft light of the moon._

_She comes here every night, and though she knows it holds some sort of significance, she can't seem to place it. But it doesn't matter, because _he _is always there._

_As if on cue, a set of footsteps sounds on the deck behind her, and she turns, a grin stretching wide across her face._

"_Back so soon, love?"_

_He cocks an eyebrow, a gentle smirk pulling up one corner of his lips as he leans easily against the wheel._

"_Of course," she answers promptly, falling into their usual repartee. Something crosses his face, though, at her words, and she takes a step closer, brow furrowing. "What?"_

_He shakes his head, grin back in place in the next second, and he reaches out for her. "Come."_

_Excitement fills her, and for a moment, she forgets about the way his eyes had darkened. She hops the three short steps to the helm and takes her place beside him._

"_Remember what I told you," he murmurs, breath brushing the side of her neck. Despite the muggy warmth in the air, she shivers. "Hands here, and here. Square your body, get a sure footing." The fingers of his good hand ghost over her own, securing her grip, and his other hooks low around her hips, holding her steady. His body is pressed snugly against hers, simultaneously holding her up and making her melt. She leans back into him—for the sake of keeping her balance, of course—and he sighs contentedly into her hair._

"_Where're we off to tonight, hm?"_

"_Well," she drawls, pretending to think, but really just enjoying the way his nose is skimming against the shell of her ear. Suddenly, a thought pops into her head, and the words follow soon out of her mouth. "The second star on the right."_

_He tenses behind her, and for a moment, she worries that she's said something wrong; but then he relaxes, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. "We've already been there, lass. Had a right adventure, we did."_

_She frowns; she doesn't remember any adventures they've had—in fact, everything they do seems to blend together into a frustratingly indistinguishable blur—but she trusts him, and if he says they've already been, then it must be true._

_She turns her head slightly, and he's so close that their lips are a mere breath apart._

_Even in the darkness, his eyes blaze a brighter blue than she's ever seen._

"_I want to see the stars, Killian," she whispers. "I want you to take me to the stars. I want to touch one."_

_He is quiet for a moment, his gaze burning into her terrifyingly, _deliciously. _His left arm comes up, and she feels the cool stroke of metal against her neck as he pushes the hair back off her shoulder._

"_As you wish, milady."_

_He leans forward, bringing them, if possible, even closer. She's confused for a moment, but then she hears the slip of a rope coming undone, the heavy beating of a sail dropping into place. His lips press into the hollow just under her ear, and linger there. She closes her eyes and _feels_, and in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure, there's something else: that familiar stirring that means—_

_She grasps the lapels of his coat, suddenly, and holds on tight._

"_Please." Her voice is a whisper, raw and broken, and his hand comes up to cradle her head to his chest. "Please don't leave me yet."_

_She feels him smile against her hair, feels the puff of air that comes from his dry chuckle. He pulls back far enough to look at her face, and there's something in his own, a little tightening around his mouth and eyes that tells her just how much he doesn't want to go._

"_I'll let you in on a little secret, darling," he says softly, brushing a piece of hair out of her eyes. His fingers trail down the side of her face to cup her cheek. He bends closer, eyes twinkling conspiratorially—even though there's still that twinge of _something_ that hurts. "I'm not the one who leaves."_

_She's left blinking, taken aback, unsure of what his words imply. They carry a weight that she doesn't understand, but she feels a small pinch of guilt anyway._

_He smiles softly and strokes her face, pressing his lips to her temple, her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose._

"_Don't trouble yourself, my love," he murmurs against her skin. "You'll find your way back to me. You always do."_

_The stirring is becoming more insistent, pulling her away—not so much physically, but mentally—and the edge of her vision starts to go hazy._

"_Killian." Her breaths come in short gasps—she's beginning to panic now, she can't leave, she doesn't _want_ to, she has stars to touch and skin to kiss—and she grips him tighter. "Killian, please—"_

"_Shh." He smoothes a hand over her hair, over and over, and his forehead falls to rest against hers. She watches as his eyes close, and something in his jaw clenches, and her heart breaks, just a little bit, because leaving hurts him just as much as it hurts her, and she doesn't want to hurt him. "It's all right, Emma. Don't fight it, love. You'll be back, quick as a flash."_

"_But I don't want—"_

_He leans forward, pressing his lips to hers in a searing kiss, cutting off her speech—and her breath, and her brain. His fingers find hers, and by the time she realizes he's untangling them from his coat, it's too late, and he's stepping back._

_His eyes are haunted, but his lips curve up in a smile. "'Till next time, then."_

_A fog rolls over her vision, and she can no longer smell the sea._

* * *

In an apartment in Manhattan, an alarm clock went off, ringing out 8:15.

Emma Swan groaned, reaching up automatically to silence the beeping. Her arm dropped back down to the bed, and she squinted her eyes closed even tighter.

There had been a dream—something about stars. She thought hard, trying to remember—because part of her knew, just _knew_, that it was one of the best dreams she'd ever had—but all she could come up with was the taste of rum on her tongue and the smell of salt in the air and smooth, buttery leather beneath her fingers

* * *

In a deserted hallway, just outside a particular apartment in Manhattan, Killian Jones let his head fall back against the wall with a muffled thud. His groin was throbbing, but that didn't hurt near as much as the pain in his chest.

He had been warned—they had told him, _numerous_ times, enough times that it was _embarrassing_—but it still stung.

Bracing for a sword didn't make the impact any more pleasant.

His eyes fell closed, and he pulled in a breath, trying to calm himself, trying—in vain—to get her image out of his brain. It was as though it had been branded on the backs of his eyelids; all he saw was her skin and her hair and her lips and her eyes and—

_Gods_.

He shouldn't have kissed her. He should've taken more time to plan his approach, he should've ditched his clothes—at least the coat and the hook—before just barging in on her. And he had fully intended to.

But then he'd fallen through the portal, and she'd been so close, and it'd been over a year, and—

He just hadn't been able to help it. He'd had to see her again, had to touch her and smell her and hear her voice.

And now, here he was, on the dingy floor of a corridor, no closer to getting Emma back than he had been in the Enchanted Forest.

Well…he was a _little _closer.

With a groan, he lifted his good hand up to his lips, which were still tingling from their brief contact with hers. _Damn_ but she'd tasted good. It'd been everything he'd thought it would be, everything he'd dreamt of—and he _had_ dreamt of kissing Emma, frequently—everything he'd fought tooth and nail over the last year to get back to.

Everything that he would _keep_ fighting for.

Grunting, he stood, stumbling a bit at the sharp pain that shot through his midsection—gods, she had bony knees—and limped towards the end of the hall, intent on finding a place to sleep for the night and, hopefully, collect his thoughts.

When he reached the staircase, he glanced back, just once, and his tongue darted out across his lip.

She'd tasted sweet, like syrup.

* * *

Emma sunk back down in her chair, slightly breathless. Her hands were trembling, and she grabbed tightly to her fork and knife in an effort to steady them.

Henry glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. "You okay, Mom?"

She forced a smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."

He gave her a skeptical look, but then shrugged, and returned to his breakfast. She pushed her eggs around her plate, no longer hungry.

That man, at the door—he'd kissed her. He'd called her by name, and, more than that, he'd been _familiar_ with her. He'd _known _her.

And she had no clue who he was.

Something faint and nagging hovered around the edges of her mind, just out of reach. A snippet of a conversation, perhaps—_Killian, please. _

And then, unbidden, another voice, a male voice, a voice she'd just heard: _You'll find your way back to me, love. You always do_.

A shiver wracked through her body.

His eyes had been so, so blue.


	2. Chapter Two

_He knows there's someone aboard the Jolly before he even hears the footsteps._

_It's something he's developed over time—a sixth sense, so to speak._

_So when the deck creaks beneath the weight of another person, and a body drops down on the bench next to him, he isn't surprised._

_What _does_ surprise him is who the person_ is_._

"_Been a long time since I've been on this ship," Bae—Neal, whoever he is now—comments with an air of wistfulness._

_Killian glances over at him, studying. The younger man looks odd, he thinks, in a tunic and pants; Baelfire wouldn't have, but he's not quite sure that he really sees him as Bae anymore._

_Neal squints into the setting sun, and he has lines around his eyes just like Milah did._

"_Aye," Killian agrees after a long moment. "That it has."_

_Silence stretches between them, not quite companionable, but not quite uncomfortable, either._

_After a beat, Neal speaks, finally turning to Killian for the first time. "Regina finished the potion. Everything's ready to go."_

_Killian feels something close to resentment burning in the pit of his stomach—he tells himself that it's the lamb stew from dinner—and he takes a deep swig from the flask in his hand. "Well, then, I expect you'll be off at first light."_

_He can't really help it if the words come out more bitter than he'd intended, can he?_

_There's another beat of silence. Neal scuffs the toe of his boot along the deck._

"_I'm not going. You are."_

_Killian pauses, flask halfway to his lips, but he doesn't have a chance to question before Neal is turning, his whole body moving to face Killian's._

"_Did Emma ever tell you what her secret was? In the Echo Cave?" His words are intense, demanding, startling in the gentle lull of twilight. His eyes are just as severe, the same muddy brown as the crocodile's—_Mr. Gold_, he corrects himself._

"_No."_

"_And you never asked about it?"_

_Killian shrugs, trying to hide his growing irritation; the boy doesn't need to _gloat_, for grief's sake. "It seemed that if she wanted me to know, she would've told me."_

_Neal nods, shifting back around on the bench so that he's facing forward again. He stares out into the horizon, and even though his brow is furrowed and his jaw is set, Killian can see the hollowness in his eyes._

"_Her secret was that she'd hoped it was a trick—she'd hoped I was really dead. Because it would've been easier to put me behind her, to mourn me, than to try to build another relationship with me. She's ready to move on, Hook. She doesn't want me anymore, not in the way she wants you."_

_He blinks. Pauses to force his heart back into action and drag in another breath of air._

She doesn't want me anymore.

Not in the way she wants you.

"_If you'll recall, mate, she never quite wanted me in the first place." His voice is hoarse, trembling, and he knows that Neal isn't buying into his false bravado bullshit anymore. _

"_Yes she did. And you know it. That kiss, it wasn't just a one-time thing, not for either of you."_

_His words bring to mind a steaming jungle and the stench of sweat and the feeling of rough, chapped lips on his own, and it's a __wonderful__ memory—one of the best he has._

_No. _No_._

_He can't get his hopes up. He can't let himself think about the possibilities—can't even let them _enter _his mind—because this is what Killian Jones does. Killian Jones daydreams and falls in love and _aches_ with every fiber of his goddamn bloody _soul_. And then when Killian Jones falls—when he crumples under the weight of his crushed hopes and his smoldering dreams—then Captain Hook has to come along behind him and clean up the mess, and well, Captain Hook's only got one hand. _

"_You're Henry's father." He forces the words out around his tongue, the same tongue that still remembers the way Emma's teeth had felt. "You should be the one to go."_

_But Neal is shaking his head even before Killian's done speaking. "I'm Henry's father. I'm not Emma's love. And it's gonna take love to get her back here, so if you think you've got it, then by all means." He gestures out in front of his body, a symbolic sweeping. "Go for it. I officially step back."_

_Killian snorts, taking another draw of the rum. "I've already stepped back, mate. You're a bit slow on the draw."_

"_Well, then, you need to step forward again before somebody else does."_

_Neal's words are sharp and unforgiving, and they give Killian pause. An image flashes through his head of Emma in someone else's arms, her body pressed up against another's, calling out someone else's name—_

Bloody hell.

_He's always been the jealous type. And even though Emma isn't technically his, he sure as hell wants her to be._

_He looks over at Neal—really looks this time—and sees a determination that he knows there's no use fighting against. Neal's eyes tighten—he must see the resignation in Killian's face—and he nods once more, shoulders relaxing a touch._

_Killian feels a funny pang shoot through his chest at the sight of this man who used to be a boy—a boy who was the closest thing he ever got to a son of his own, the only living, breathing piece of the woman he'd once given everything for._

_Everything but the things that _counted_, that is._

_He wouldn't make that mistake twice._

"_I will bring her back," he swears quietly. "All of her."_

"_I know you will," Neal replies, voice tight._

"_No." Killian sits up straighter, reaches out to grab Neal's shoulder, to turn him, because it's __crucial__ that he understand. "_I_ will bring her back."_

_Neal's face lights with understanding, and then crumples again in defeat, and as much as it pains Killian to see, to make that kind of declaration, he knows that, somehow, it'll be a comfort._

_There's another beat of silence._

"_Look after the lady, will you?" Killian asks, jerking his chin towards the helm when Neal glances up questioningly. "I do need to make sure she's left in capable hands."_

_A rueful smile crosses Neal's face, and he brings two fingers up in a lose salute._

"_Aye, aye, cap'n."_

* * *

For the second time in less that forty-eight hours, he found himself staring at Emma Swan's door.

He raised a hand to knock, and at the last moment, pulled it away. He turned and paced three steps, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to _do_?

How the hell was he supposed to get her back?

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stood still, working to calm himself. He was full of a strange, fidgety nervous energy, not aided by the fact that he felt utterly ridiculous in David's jacket and Neal's pants. His hook, too, was gone—left in his satchel on the dresser of the hotel room he'd rented—and without it, he felt completely disarmed, entirely out of his element.

He glared down at his limp left sleeve, as if it were to blame for his lack of courage.

_Well_…

No. He couldn't think like that. He didn't have _time_ to think like that.

He pulled in a breath and squared his shoulders, shoving aside his insecurities. And then, before he had another chance to back out or second guess himself, he rapped three times on the door.

* * *

When the boy answered, he couldn't help but stare. And blink.

_Bleeding hell_.

He swore the last time he'd seen Henry, the lad had been at least six inches shorter.

* * *

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat, forcing the words out of his mouth. "Erm—ah—yes, I was wondering if—"

"Henry? Who is it?"

Killian felt his heart stop—and his hand twitch down towards his nether regions—when Emma's head appeared above Henry's. As soon as she saw him, her mouth hardened into a thin line.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, mister, but if you came back here to—"

"To apologize," he cut in before she could get any farther. "I came to apologize."

She paused, eyes uncertain, and he rushed to continue before she had a chance to make up her mind, knowing this was his last shot.

"I am so terribly sorry for yesterday morning. I was entirely out of line."

She didn't say anything for a long moment, instead laying a hand on Henry's shoulder, and directing him back inside the apartment. The boy went, reluctantly, glancing back every few steps, and if Killian hadn't been so nervous, he would've chuckled.

"Yeah," she finally agreed, arms crossing over her chest as she moved a half step closer. "Yeah, you were. You're lucky I didn't call the cops."

He ducked his head in acquiescence, not entirely sure that she wouldn't still be calling the authorities.

"Who _are_ you?"

It wasn't so much her question that caught him off guard, but her tone of voice: burningly curious, almost pleading. There was something else there, something under the surface that was getting to her. He glanced back up, brow furrowing.

"Killian Jones," he replied automatically. "My name is Killian Jones."

He watched as all of the color drained from her face.

* * *

_Killian Jones. Killian. Killian._

The name echoed in her head as she stood frozen, eyes wide. He frowned, obviously concerned, and she didn't blame him—she was sure she looked like she'd just seen a ghost.

She _felt_ like she'd just seen a ghost.

_Please, Killian. Please don't leave me. _

"Emma?" He took a step forward, reaching out for her, just stopping short of actually touching her arm. "Are you all right?"

Emma. _Emma_. He'd called her Emma, and she hadn't even introduced herself yet.

How the hell did he know her name was _Emma_?

She hadn't meant to ask. She didn't _want_ to know. But her mouth, apparently, had a mind of its own, and look where it'd gotten her.

She couldn't even _speak_.

She thought about running, she _wanted_ to run—wanted to turn her back and slam the door and forget he'd ever shown up in the first place.

But his eyes were blue, and he was wearing a leather jacket and he'd called her Emma and his name was _Killian._

Somehow, she knew, there wouldn't be any running this time.


	3. Chapter Three

She clutched the mug tightly in both of her hands, and stared down at the amber liquid. It wasn't good tea—not by a long shot; it was that crappy instant stuff—but it was the strongest thing she had in the cupboards.

He had offered her rum, producing a flask from some inner jacket pocket, but she wasn't desperate enough to start taking alcohol—or anything ingestible, for that matter—from strangers who showed up on her doorstep, proclaiming to know her.

At least, she wasn't desperate enough _yet_.

With a sigh, she dropped her forehead down into her hand, feeling the beginning stirrings of a migraine behind her left eye. Idly, she rubbed at the spot, trying to wrap her brain around everything that had happened in the last half hour.

"Mom?"

She glanced up automatically at the sound of Henry's voice, to see him standing at the edge of the hallway. His eyes flickered from her, seated at the table, over to the man—_Killian Jones_—who was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't spoken a word since entering the apartment, choosing instead to stand and watch in silence as she bustled around, heating water and riffling for the tea bags.

"What's going on?" Henry took a hesitant step forward. "Who is he? What's he doing here?"

Her head throbbed particularly violently at the questions—_I'm just as confused as you,_ she wanted to say—and she held out a hand to her son, who obligingly slid into her embrace. She rested her forehead against his narrow shoulder—Jesus, when had he gotten tall enough for her to be able to do that?—and rubbed a hand soothingly over his back.

"I think maybe you should go next door for a little bit," she said softly, tilting her head up to look at him. His face crinkled into an _are-you-crazy?_ look, and she couldn't help but smile.

"It'll be fine." She straightened up, squeezing his arm before gently nudging him towards the door. "You'll be close enough to hear the screams," she joked weakly.

He cast her a look that said he very definitely didn't approve of what she was doing, but he headed grudgingly for the door. She had to stifle a laugh when, as he passed the man, he shot him a lethal glare.

The man, at least, had the decency to look somewhat abashed.

Henry reached the door and turned back to face her. "I'm giving you thirty minutes."

She took a sip of her tea to hide her grin. "Fair enough."

The door snapped shut behind him, and Emma felt all the energy drain from her body. She slumped against her chair, head dropping down into her hand again, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that she was very much alone in her apartment with a man she didn't even know.

Or maybe she did—it was all very confusing.

_What the hell are you doing, Swan_?

"He's a good lad."

Killian's voice was soft and strangely reminiscent; she rolled her head over to the side to look at him, only to see that he was already watching her.

She tried to ignore the funny thrill that shot through her.

"Yeah," she agreed belatedly. "He is. Don't know where he got it from."

"Well." He took a cautious step towards the table, and when she didn't protest, he sunk down into the chair opposite her. "It seems to me that you've got a good lad because you've been a good mum."

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably—she'd never been very good at taking compliments.

Not that she'd been paid that many, either.

She shrugged, rather noncommittally, and took another sip. "Or he's just a good kid."

"Aye," he said after a moment, mouth twitching up. "Could be that, too."

She swirled the dregs of tea around in the bottom on her mug, briefly considering making another, and just as quickly deciding against it. She wasn't a fan of beating around the bush, but she didn't quite know where to start. She didn't get the feeling that he meant her any harm—he'd had ample opportunities to try to pull something on her, and he hadn't—but something about him set her on edge.

She wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or not.

"Yesterday," she finally said after a beat of silence, "you said you were an old friend." She glanced up to see him still watching, electric eyes seeming to drink her in in a way that made her stomach squirm again. "What's that all about?"

He hesitated just a second too long, and she felt the warning bells go off in the back of her mind. He opened his mouth, and she braced herself for the lie.

"You and I, we were…acquainted," he started slowly, and she frowned when the familiar tingle never raced down the back of her neck. Whatever story he was telling, at the very least, he believed it to be true.

At best, it really _was_ true.

She shivered again.

"There was trouble," he continued. "Your boy was in danger, and I helped you get him back. Along the way, we grew close." His voice grew softer over the last sentence, expression filling with something she didn't quite recognize—something not quite sorrow and not quite regret, but something that was definitely pained.

"I know—" He leaned forward abruptly, tongue darting out over his lip in a nervous gesture, "I know that you don't remember. And I have something that will make you remember, but I will not give it to you without your consent."

Her head spun—_I know you don't remember. But I can make you_. "Why couldn't you have said that yesterday?" she asked, what little humor that was in her voice falling flat.

His wry smile looked oddly self-depreciating, and she immediately regretted the jibe.

An awkward silence settled over them, and after a few moments, he stood, reaching for her mug. She let him take it without argument and watched as he walked over to the sink and rinsed it out, fishing the tea bag out with a finger and tossing it down into the garbage can.

She frowned, cocking her head to the side. Something about the way he moved, the way his left arm stayed stiff and rigid—

She remembered the previous morning, shoving him back and catching a glint of metal.

A _hook_, attached at his wrist where his hand should have been.

Abruptly, an image came to mind of the helm of a ship, the sleeve of a leather coat stretched out in front of her, a metal hook holding the wheel steady.

_Remember what I told you. Hands here, and here._

She shook herself. Of course she was being ridiculous. She'd never been on a ship like that before. Her imagination was just running wild, must've been something she'd dreamed—

"You said you had something that would make me remember." Her voice cut through the silence, loud, abrupt, and he glanced back at her. "What is it?"

He set the mug on the edge of the sink, taking the time to dry his hand before answering. "A potion."

One of her brows edged up of its own accord. "A potion?"

"Aye." He ambled back over to the table and took his seat again. She stared in disbelief.

"And you didn't think to just slip it in my tea?"

Hurt flashed across his features, and she felt another pang of guilt.

"If there's one thing I believe in, it's good form," he said quietly. "_That_, love, is most decidedly _not_ good form."

Her chest clenched at the way the endearment slipped from his lips so effortlessly—as if he'd done it a hundred times before.

_Don't fight it, love. You'll be back, quick as a flash_.

The words came to her unbidden, and she nearly huffed in frustration. Why were these—these _things_ popping into her head, these things that sounded like memories and felt like dreams?

Where were they _coming_ from?

Her head gave another painful throb.

"This is too much," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was going insane. There was no other explanation for what was happening. Why else would she let some stranger—some stranger who claimed to know her, who said he had a _potion_ that would _make her remember_, no less—into her home? Why else would she entertain a conversation with him?

"Emma?"

But _damn_ if he wasn't right there, leaning over her, so close that she could smell him—_leather and salt and spice_. His voice was in her ear, soothing her in a way that she hadn't been soothed in a long, long time, telling her that everything was going to be okay and she could trust him, please, and please, please don't push him away again.

His fingers brushed her hair over her shoulder, skimming over her skin, and she reeled back, twisting away so that she wouldn't have to see the rejection crease his face.

"I think it's time for you to go now."

Her voice was shaking, and her stomach burned with the shame of appearing so weak.

"Emma, please." She heard the scrape of the chair legs behind her as he stood. He stepped around the edge of the table, and she braced herself for his touch, but it never came.

"I just need to know you're all right."

She let her eyes fall closed as his words brushed over the back of her neck, coaxing chill bumps up along her skin. His voice was so raw, so open, so _concerned_, and she relished in the feeling for a moment.

Whoever Killian Jones was, he wasn't lying about caring for her.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned back around to face him, and his proximity was like a punch in the gut. She forced a breath.

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

He looked appropriately confused. "Yes, but—"

"Good," she cut him off, sidestepping around him to head for the door. She opened it, and looked back at him expectantly. "Then you can go back there and just wait until I've had time to think about all this."

He stared at her for a moment, and she could almost see his inner battle pan out across his face. He wanted to stay, but he also wanted to respect her wishes, but he also wanted to _stay_.

"You can come back tomorrow," she said, the words coming out before she had a chance to think. She found, though, after she'd spoken them that they were true. For whatever reason, he had dropped into her life, and she intended to find out why.

His expression cleared some, and he nodded once. She watched as he took slow, measured steps towards the door, stopping just in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand twitch, fingers straining out towards her, but at the last moment, he pulled them back into a fist.

"As you wish," he said quietly, and without another backward glance, he was gone.

* * *

She stood at the door for a long time after he left, listening to his footsteps pound out three flights of stairs.


	4. Chapter Four

_Tonight is different. _

_She can tell from the moment she slips away into sleep. She's more aware, more lucid than she ever has been before, and when her eyes land on that familiar deck, she pauses. _

_The sails are unfurled, expanding and contracting gently with each sway of the wind. Trunks and crates are packed around the edges of the ship, just under the railings, some piled in the middle, but all secured and tied down with lengths of rope. _

_Just along the edge of the horizon, she sees the telling pale glow of dawn. _

"_I'll be honest, darling. I didn't expect you back." _

_She whirls around, for the first time oblivious to his approach. He stands not three feet away from her, a thick coil of rope slung across his shoulder. He flashes her a grin, and her breath catches in her throat. _

_He's always been beautiful, in a strange, dangerous way. But tonight—tonight he is simply _glorious_. _

_He's rid himself of his coat and vest, clad only in those sinfully tight leather pants and a loose shirt and boots. His hook is in place, ring dangling from his right lobe, kohl thick around his eyes, and he looks every bit the pirate. _

_Except for his face. _

_His expression is clearer than she can ever remember it being, all the lines smoothed out. His eyes are sparkling and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are quick to curl up, exposing brilliant flashes of teeth. _

_His hair is disheveled, thick strands standing on end in the breeze, and all she wants to do is run her hands through it. _

"_Why not?" she finally asks in reply. "I always come back." _

_He takes a step closer, grin softening to a smile. The backs of his knuckles brush lightly against her cheek, and she leans into the touch. "That's kind of the point, love." _

_She frowns, confused, but before she has the chance to ask, he continues. "I'm right there with you, sweetheart. We don't have to meet like this anymore. You've got a real, live, _warm_ Killian Jones at your disposal." He tugs on a piece of her hair, winking cheekily, and she makes a valiant effort to try and hide her grin. _

_Her hands travel up over his chest to rest above where she feels his heart beating, sure and steady. "But he's not _you_." _

_He shifts even closer still, hand slipping around to the back of her head, tilting her face up to him. His eyes are gentle, almost bittersweet, and his voice, when he speaks, is a whisper. _

"_That's because you haven't_ let_ him be, love." _

_She's stunned into silence, unable to do anything more than stare, eyes wide. His fingers move to cover hers on his chest, pressing down. "Emma, this heart, this body, all of who I am—it's yours, darling. It has been from the very beginning. That won't change when you wake up." _

"_How can you be so sure?" She's always trusted him, never doubted a word he's said, but her voice and her heart are full of a skepticism that _almost_ masks the fear of losing him. _

_His arms sling low around her hips and he pulls her flush against him—she has the strangest moment where she thinks of a beanstalk and a room full of treasure, _about bloody time_—smiling down at her. "Because it's you, Emma. There's nothing I've ever been more certain of in my life." _

_She studies his face for a moment, sees the openness and the honesty there, before leaning forward and resting her head on his shoulder. She closes her eyes, just for a moment, and tries to commit to memory the way he feels, solid and warm. His lips press against the top of her head, his hand tangling in the ends of her hair. _

"_You needn't be frightened," he tells her, and there's so much conviction in his voice that she feels her hesitation waver. "I'll be right next to you, the entire time. Pirate's honor." _

_She rolls her eyes up to look at him, a single eyebrow cocked. "I'm not sure that counts for much." _

_He merely grins back, and when his lips curl up, she traces them with her eyes, wanting to press kisses into the corners of his mouth. "Emma-love, have I ever steered you wrong?"_

* * *

She woke with a start, and stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, finding for the first time that she remembered everything. There were no wisps of a dream, nothing vague and unquantifiable floating around the edges of her mind.

She still felt, in vividly excruciating detail, the warmth of his chest under her cheek.

_You needn't be frightened. _

_Have I ever steered you wrong?_

* * *

Sleeping had never been one of his strong suits.

Even when he was a boy, he'd never felt the need to get more than a few hours rest here and there.

In the darkness of the hotel room, he leaned back against the headboard of the hard, creaky bed and stared a hole in the opposite wall.

The room was empty, bare, _desolate_, pressing in on him from every side with suffocating blackness.

He thought of Neverland, of nights he'd spent staring out at the endless ocean, not a wrinkle of land in sight, and how lost he had felt.

That was one thing he'd learned—lost boys needn't necessarily be _boys_.

He sighed, shifting his weight and crossing his arms over his chest. The headboard was digging uncomfortably into his shoulders, and the clock on the nightstand read 3:57.

* * *

She wasn't surprised when the knock rang through the apartment for the third morning in a row, even if it _was_ only just eight o'clock.

She tugged on the hem of her blouse as she crossed to the door, reaching up to smooth a wayward piece of hair back into her braid.

She was going to keep it _together_ today, dammit.

She had taken off work, and even arranged for Henry to go over to one of his friends' houses after school; she was going to get her answers, and then she would be _done_.

When she opened the door and took a look at him, all of her convictions flew out the window.

He was a _wreck_.

Still dressed in the shirt and pants as the previous day—somewhere along the way, he had lost the jacket—his eyes were bloodshot, shadowed, hair mussed and rumpled.

In her mind, she saw him standing at the bow of a ship, a rope slung across his body.

She swallowed.

He tried for a grin, but it fell flat when it didn't reach his eyes. "'Morning."

"You look like hell."

The words popped out of her mouth before she could catch them and her eyes went wide, but he was already chuckling, something in his eyes sparking to life.

"Don't hold anything back, darling, please," he teased, stepping across the threshold. He made his way into the kitchen, and after a startled moment, she closed the door and followed him.

He dropped easily into the chair he'd occupied the previous morning and stretched his arms up over his head. "You wouldn't happen to have any coffee, would you? Had a bit of a long night."

She watched as the cuff of his sleeve rose higher on his forearm, slipping back to expose the black leather of some kind of brace, and then, above it, the swirling lines of ink.

"Yeah," she replied, ripping her eyes away. "Yeah, I'll put some on. It'll just take a few minutes."

She busied herself with the coffee maker, pouring in the water and then the grounds, tapping her finger on the counter impatiently as she waited for it to percolate. When there was enough of the steaming liquid in the decanter for two cups, she poured them both mugs and returned to the table.

He took his gratefully, swallowing down a gulp and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Thank you."

She bobbed her head once, awkwardly, and tried to memorize the pattern on the table cloth to avoid his probing eyes.

Seconds ticked by, and neither one of them spoke.

"Your arm," she said finally, gesturing to his left arm, "what's the tattoo mean?"

He stilled, fingers flexing around the rim of his mug, an immediate tension thickening the air. His eyes held hers for only a second before darting away, his tongue wetting his bottom lip.

"Never mind—I'm sorry," she stuttered, but he was already shaking his head, reaching for the end of his sleeve to roll it up.

"No, it's fine, just—just unexpected."

He held his arm out to her, forearm completely bared, and she peered down at the ink coloring his skin.

"Is that…a _beanstalk_?"

"Aye." His voice was careful, measured, and his eyes were unreadable when hers flicked up to meet them.

She scooted to the edge of her chair and reached for his arm, carefully pulling it closer. The muscles twitched under his skin at her touch, but he didn't try to pull away.

It _was_ a beanstalk, every vine and leaf painstakingly shaded, winding up his arm. At the top, some sort of bird—the Golden Goose, perhaps?—was perched on a larger leaf, a shackled heart held in its beak.

"Jack and the Beanstalk?" she mused. "Where's the goose's golden egg?"

It took him a long moment to reply, long enough that she looked up at him. A tick worked in his jaw, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely gruff.

"It's a swan."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, she felt all of her muscles lock into place. Her breathing stopped.

_It's a swan. _

_Swan. At last. _

_You and I, we were…acquainted. _

Oh. _Oh._

With a shaky exhale, she blinked, sinking back down into her chair. She stared at him across the table where his eyes were trained resolutely on his clenched right fist.

"I think we need to talk."


	5. Chapter Five

**I just wanted to take a moment to say that I'm so completely blown away by all the kind reviews and favorites/follows I've been getting. You guys are incredible!**

**That being said, this is kind of the turning point chapter. I won't give any spoilers away, but just know that after this, things will pick up rather quickly.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"So. What's this all about?"

Emma leaned back against the hood of the yellow bug, crossing her arms over her chest in a vain attempt to ward off the chilly coastal breeze. She glanced over at Killian, who was standing next to her. Despite the fact that he was only in his shirtsleeves, and that it was late February, he didn't seem bothered by the cold. Instead, he stared off to the left, at some indistinguishable spot on the blacktop.

"Almost exactly a year ago," he said, voice oddly strained, "I stood in this very spot and told you not a day would go by that I wouldn't think of you. And then I watched you drive away."

His gaze flickered up to hers, and she didn't know how to respond to the intensity she saw there. His eyes were electric, probing, and she felt like they could see all the way down into her soul, all the way through the solid walls around her heart that she'd spent a lifetime carefully constructing.

They were eyes that _knew_ her, more intimately than maybe even she knew herself, eyes that had seen firsthand his own brand of abandonment and heartbreak.

Her stomach clenched, and she looked away, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with how cold it was.

"If what you're saying is true, then why don't I remember it?" she finally asked, drawing her coat tighter around her shoulders.

There was a beat of silence, and she glanced back over to see him still studying her, and it set her teeth on edge, the way he was practically _picking her apart_.

"_What_?" she snapped, and she expected him to flinch or wince, or do _something_.

But his lips merely curled up into a wry grin, and he chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, Swan, sometimes I forget you're still in there."

She clenched her teeth, and pulled a long, slow breath in through her nose.

When a moment passed and she was certain that the first thing to come out of her mouth wouldn't be a four letter word, she sighed.

"What is that even supposed to _mean_ to me?"

He turned bodily to face her, leaning against his elbow on the hood of the car. "It means," he said, "that you have two choices. I have the potion in my pocket. I swear to you, on my life, that it will do you no harm. You can drink it, and you'll remember everything."

"And that doesn't sound questionable at all," she muttered. He fought to hide his grin. "What's option number two?"

He shifted forward so that there was less than a foot between them, and she resisted the urge to pull back. His warmth radiated along the left side of her body, and part of her wanted nothing more than to lean into it. The other part wanted nothing more than to run, as fast as she could, in the other direction.

She wasn't quite sure which part was stronger.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, but somehow echoing through her skull. "I'll answer every last question you have, I promise. But you have to trust me, Emma. You have to believe me. I can't tell you these things and have you push me away."

Her breath caught in her throat and she had to force herself to swallow. His voice-it _wasn't_ his voice, but at the same time, it _was_-played through her mind: _Emma-love, have I ever steered you wrong? _

And then, another, a snippet she had never heard before, one that she didn't remember-_Try something new, darling. It's called trust._

She knew what would happen if she said yes, what would happen if she let him in. How could she have any doubts? His body was warm and his eyes were hypnotizing and he _knew_ her.

But the alternate was drinking some kind of potion from God-knows-where, and she trusted heart to _it_ a hell of a lot less than she trusted her heart to _him_.

"Okay."

She wasn't even sure that the word came out of her mouth at all, that it was anything more than a forming of lips around vowels and consonants, but he seemed to understand.

He _always_ seemed to understand.

He pushed off the hood of the car, crossing around to the driver's side, pulling open the door.

She lifted a brow in question.

"It's a long story, love, and you're already cold."

* * *

He took a deep breath, reflexively clenching and unclenching his right fist. His heart was pounding a mile a minute and his mind was frazzled, unable to put two coherent thoughts together.

He felt the weight of her gaze on his face, the weight of the words he had yet to speak in his chest.

He started out with the only thing that came to mind: "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a princess…"

* * *

She sat, simultaneously enthralled by and terrified of the stories he spun. He spoke of kings and queens, castles and dragons, curses and True Love and magical compasses and a pirate ship that could fly.

He spoke, and she thought of a woman's kind face and a man's strong determination. She thought of adventures through forests and journeys across vast seas.

He spoke, and she thought of tortured eyes and accidental touches and secrets whispered into the darkness of a cave.

She thought of a burning kiss—a kiss that tasted like rum and felt rough like salt and sand.

* * *

Silence stretched between them, and he had no way to measure it. Seconds could have passed, minutes even, hours. He watched her as she stared straight ahead, jaw tight and eyes wide.

With anyone else, he would've lost patience.

With her, he simply sat, and watched the way the gears turned in her head, processing everything he'd just told her.

When, at last, she held a hand out to him, he didn't question. He reached inside his—David's—jacket and pulled out the flask.

* * *

The rum burned heavy down her throat, and she welcomed the warmth it brought, tingling down through her fingers and toes. With a shudder, she re-capped the flask and handed it back to him.

He took it, and his fingers brushed hers, and she shivered again.

"Emma?" he asked finally, voice breaking the spell that had seemingly settled over them.

She shook her head, one tight motion. She wasn't ready to think about it, wasn't ready to deal, she just wanted to go back to pretending that time had stopped.

He shifted, good arm crossing over, and for one terrifying second, she thought he was going to take her hand. But his fingers merely came to rest on the seat beside her leg, and she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"I know you're just trying to wrap your head around everything," he murmured. "You take all the time you need, love. There's no rush. And—" He paused, hesitating—"I know you don't _need_ me. But if you _want_…I'll be right here."

She turned his words over in her head—why did she get the feeling that he was always stepping back, always letting her do the leading?

She tried to think, to reason, but her mind was clouded with wisps and ghosts of things that felt like fairytales and daydreams, but were really _real_.

She reached forward, turning the key in the ignition.

She just wanted to go _home_. The only problem was, she didn't quite know where that was anymore.

* * *

It was dark by the time she pulled the car up parallel to the curb outside of her apartment.

She had offered to drive him home, but he had refused, saying it wasn't a far walk.

She put the car in park and sat for a moment, staring down at the steering wheel.

"What do we do now?"

Her voice sounded strange in the silence that had shrouded them for the last few hours. She looked up at him to find that he—of course—was already watching her. He gave a little shrug, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a wry grin.

"What do you think?"

She pulled her eyes away, and they roved automatically up to a window on the third floor of the apartment building.

"Just—give me a day or two to tell my son, okay?"

She heard rather than saw his nod—a rustling of fabric against the car's upholstery. "As you wish."

He made to reach for the door handle to get out, and she was seized with the sudden urge to pull him back. Before she knew what was happening, her hand was on his arm.

"Thank you," she said when he glanced back, "for telling me. You could've just as easily slipped me that potion, and I wouldn't have been any the wiser. But you're letting me do this my way—so, thanks."

His eyes softened, and a smile worked its way over his lips. "Don't think anything of it, love."

And before she had a chance to say anything else, he was gone, slipping out of the car and into the night.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **Thank you all so much for your patience and all your kind words! I'm sorry about the delay on this chapter; my computer had issues, and it erased everything I had written, so I had to start from scratch. But this one is extra long, and full of feelsy, CS goodness, so hopefully that makes up for it :)

And, as I said, this will be somewhat of a turning point chapter, so stay tuned!

* * *

"So you're telling me that that man who was here earlier is supposed to be Captain Hook?" Henry cocked an eyebrow, a slice of pizza held halfway to his mouth. "As in, Captain Hook from _Peter Pan_?"

Emma winced. The words only sounded that much more ridiculous in her twelve-year-old's skeptical tone. "That's what he claims," she hedged.

Henry dropped his pizza down to his place, mopping up a generous helping of marinara sauce before taking another bite. "And you believe him?"

She sighed, reaching up to rub at her temple—an action that had become much more common over the past four days than it ever had been before. She thought about the long afternoon that she had spent parked on that old country blacktop, listening in equal parts disbelief and awe as a lilting voice spun tales that were actually _true_. Snow White and Prince Charming, the Evil Queen, Robin Hood and his Merry Men, Rumplestiltskin, _Cinderella_ for crying out loud—

And Captain Hook.

He had believed every word of what he'd told her. She hadn't needed her so-called "superpower" to come to that conclusion; the conviction in his voice and the burning desperation in his eyes had been enough to convince her that he truly _believed_.

But did _she_?

Her head gave a painful throb.

"I don't know," she finally answered, taking a swig from the nearly overflowing wine glass in front of her. "But I don't get the feeling that he's lying to me."

Henry gave her a pointed look. "He could be a psychopath. Or a serial killer. Or a serial _rapist_."

She rolled her eyes. "Henry—"

"I still can't believe you left town with him. Stranger danger, _hello_."

"Last time I checked, you weren't the parent here, buddy."

A beat of stubborn silence passed as they stared at each other across the table, neither one willing to back down. Henry set his jaw and tilted his chin, and she felt herself soften just the slightest bit as she recognized the expression that she'd seen light her own face many times.

With a sigh, she buckled, picking up the crust of her pizza and giving it a halfhearted nibble. "Nothing happened, did it?" she mumbled around her mouthful. "I'm fine. He brought me back in one piece."

He still looked unconvinced, but at least he didn't argue, instead giving her one last _look_ before taking another bite of his food. She pushed herself up from the table, carrying her plate over to the sink, and as she watched her picked-over dinner disappear with an angry growl from the garbage disposal, she thought about the very valid point that her son had made.

This man had appeared out of nowhere, literally dropping out of the sky and onto her doorstep. She had never seen him before, but there was some unexplainable part of her that _knew_ him—the smell of his skin and the taste of his lips and the brush of his fingers on her cheek. She knew the sound of his voice, and the feel of his heart, beating sure and steady, against the palms of her hands.

He claimed to have known her before, didn't question the fact that she had no memory of him in her life, but was so secure in the belief that he _belonged_ there.

_I hate to disappoint you, Swan, but we make quite the team_.

She set her plate down in the sink, taking a moment to lean over its porcelain depths, fingers gripping the edge of the counter. Pulling in a breath, reigning back in her heart and her mind, she straightened, heading back through the kitchen towards the living room. She ruffled Henry's hair as she passed him, setting in on his fourth slice of pizza.

"C'mon kid. It's your turn to pick the movie."

* * *

_When she finally slips into slumber, after hours of tossing and turning, there is no ship. _

_There is no ship, and there is no Killian._

_She is standing on a white sand beach, a stunning expanse of turquoise water spread out before her. There is not a soul in sight, not even a bird circling in the sunset-sky, and she drops down onto the pristine beach, pulling her knees to her chest. _

_It's the first night she's been alone in a long, long time, and she feels the telltale burn of tears at the thought. _

_A warm breeze washes over her, and she closes her eyes, leaning into it. The air is heavy with salt, rough like calloused fingers when it traces down the curve of her cheek. It fans down the side of her neck, lighting shivers in her spine, and she swears she hears a whisper. _

"_Open your eyes, love. It's there you'll find me."_

* * *

She woke slowly, floating down into consciousness, and when she opened her eyes, it was to blink away the moisture collected there. She rolled to her side, cushioning her head on her forearm, and stared out the window at the inky expanse of black sky.

Her body felt heavy, _tired_, and she didn't try to fight the tears that rolled down her cheeks and landed on her pillow.

When it became obvious that no more sleep would come, when a faint pink tinge had appeared on the horizon and the clock at her bedside read a quarter after six, she pushed herself up and headed for the shower.

* * *

She was not at all surprised by the knock that came promptly at eight o'clock.

She rose from the couch, tucking her still-damp hair behind her ear as she padded softly to the door.

She found little comfort in the fact that Killian looked just as worn and weary as she did.

He followed her silently back to the living room, sinking down into the couch as she nudged a steaming mug of coffee towards him.

His lips quirked up in something that vaguely resembled a wry grin, one of his eyebrows edging up on his forehead. "Been expecting me?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Doesn't look like I was wrong to."

Her words seemed to spark something in him, and when he turned to look at her, she found herself on the receiving end of yet another penetrating gaze.

"No," he murmured after a moment, dragging his eyes away from her. "No, you weren't."

She studied him as he lifted the mug to his lips, taking a long draw, eyes closing with a contented sigh. She watched the way the muscles in his throat contracted as he swallowed, caught a peek of his tongue as it darted out to trace over his bottom lip.

"You haven't been sleeping," she stated, and his body tensed, eyes reopening. With a chuckle, he leaned forward, placing his mug on the table next to hers.

"There are quite a few things at which I excel," he replied, though she hadn't necessarily been asking. "Sleeping is not one of them."

"Why not?"

The question popped out before she had a chance to censor it. A long moment of silence stretched between them as he stared down at the scuffed wood of her floors, and when he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable, carefully arranged neutrality.

"I don't know that you're ready to hear that quite yet, love."

Her breath caught in her throat at his words, and she realized exactly how much she _did_ want to know, and how terrified she was of what she might find out.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, shivering, and caught his humorless smile out of the corner of her eye.

Long seconds, _minutes_, passed between them, and neither of them spoke, choosing instead to stare in opposite directions. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, and she tried to tamp down the panic that tried to rise from her gut.

He had told her magnificent tales of far off places and people she'd only dreamed about, _read_ about. He'd told her of battles and journeys and everything in between, but there was something missing, something he'd left out.

He'd told her of _actions_. She wanted to know of _feelings_.

She wanted to know why this man had come for her, this man with the haunted eyes and her namesake inked into his skin. If what he'd told her was true, and she had all these people in another land who loved her and cared for her and wanted her back, why had it been _him_ that had come?

Deep down inside, there was a part of her that knew, a part that dreamed of nights spent at sea with a pirate in a long leather coat, but she needed to _hear_.

She needed to know that there was someone out there, not just someone who loved her, but someone who _came back_.

"You told me we were acquainted," she finally said, and she tried to ignore the way her voice seemed to tremble as she kept her eyes firmly trained on her bowl of long soggy cornflakes. "How close were we?"

She heard him shift, the rustle of fabric and the creak of rusted springs as he settled farther into the couch. "Not as close as I'd have liked," he said softly, and she nodded at the admission.

"Were we ever…?" She let the question trail off, unsure of how to phrase it, and hoped that he got the gist of what she was trying to ask.

"We shared a kiss," he answered, and she felt her breath rush out of her lungs at the thought of, okay, maybe she wasn't crazy, maybe she really did remember what his lips felt like against hers, the way his hand liked to come up and fist in her hair—

"We knew each other a very short time," he continued, voice strained, and she chanced a glance over at him. His head was back against the cushions, eyes closed, but his jaw was set, tensed. "When we met, I was so consumed with getting my revenge that I gave nothing else a second thought. And then you left me on top of that bloody beanstalk." He chuckled, and his eyes opened to reveal affection and admiration and that _something else_ that she had never before wanted to explore, but now found herself craving.

His hand came up, fingers playing in the ends of her hair, settling the waves against her shoulder, and it wasn't until he pulled away that she realized she hadn't been breathing.

"You snuck up on me, Swan. Took this old pirate by surprise. And let me tell you darling, as someone who's seen just about all there is to see, that's rather difficult to do."

She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to respond to his declaration. She had had an inkling, some idea of how he'd felt, but easily chased away thoughts and confirming words were entirely different things. She pulled in a slow, steadying breath, and it was ripped right back out of her when his fingers skimmed along her back.

"You're not the only one who's scared," he murmured gently, and she felt herself sink back, just the tiniest bit, into the soothing warmth of his hand.

"What do you have to be scared of?" she asked, not daring to look over at him.

He shifted again, his hand spreading farther across the small of her back. "You're no stranger to loved ones leaving you," he said, and it wasn't a question. "Neither am I. I've already watched you walk away from me once before."

His words pained something in the pit of her chest, made her stomach twist guiltily. He had been burned before, too. She didn't know how or when, but the scars he bore were easily recognizable when she knew what to look for. And yet—

He had supposedly travelled across realms, laid everything out on the line, bared himself to her, even after her initial rejection.

She thought about that first morning he'd appeared on her doorstep—had it only been four days ago?—thought about the way his eyes had lit up and his face had cleared, and the way he had said her name, softly, reverently, _Swan_.

"The potion is the only way to get back, isn't it?" she asked, finally mustering the courage to glance back at him.

His answering smile was devastating—sad and small and gentle, it lifted the corners of his lips, but darkened the blue in his eyes. "It does indeed seem as if that is the case."

His gaze dropped from hers, but not before she saw the self-depreciation there, and she remembered his lips, rough and desperate against hers, the fingers of his good hand digging into her hip as he tried to _make her remember._

She knew there was weight there, something that prickled in her mind and made her think of fate and happily ever after and True Love's Kiss—

She firmly rerouted her train of thought, unwilling yet to walk down that path. "And what happens after I take it?"

She felt rather than heard him shrug beside her. "I'm to give you a piece of paper with instructions. Apparently, it's up to you after that."

The new knowledge should've surprised her, but she merely nodded, because of course, _of course_, it would've been left up to her.

She was the _savior_, after all.

"And you just went along with all this? Jumped through a portal with no idea where you'd end up, unsure if you'd even be able to find me, without any definite way back?"

That same soft smile lit his face again, and she felt her chest clench painfully at the sight. "I didn't have anywhere else to be, love. I've nothing left for me back there. Not without you."

And his words were so earnest and he was so breathtakingly honest and he was so, so beautiful when he looked at her like that—

It was too much. It was too much, and it was not enough, and she felt her heart swelling in her chest, pushing a lump into her throat, and the only thing that anchored her down to the earth was his hand, still warm and rubbing circles into the spot between her shoulder blades.

She had never meant so much to one person, not to anybody other than her son, not ever.

Making up her mind, she turned bodily to face him, crossing her legs on the couch. She knew that her eyes were red-rimmed, and she could feel her bottom lip quivering, but he said nothing, instead fixing her with another one of those blazing, devastating _looks_, and for the first time, she didn't look away.

His hand moved up her arm, traced across the skin of her neck, brushed her cheekbone, so tender that it made her ache.

"You'll be there with me?"

She hated the fact that she had to ask, hated that her voice wavered, but she _needed_ to know.

"Every second," he swore.

She nodded once, firmly, swallowing back her tears as she straightened her shoulders. She held out her hand, palm up, fingers stretching towards him. "Give it to me."


End file.
